


Shall We Keep Moving And Destroy Barriers?

by Eisenschrott



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rise of Empire Era - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Prosthesis, Sparring, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 07:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10329302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisenschrott/pseuds/Eisenschrott
Summary: Captain Rae Sloane, fresh off the events of the Gorse conflict, locks horns with ISB Agent Kallus, fresh off the Lasan massacre.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Day 10 prompt (Exceeding expectations / “It appears that I owe you an apology”) of the Imperial March 2017 challenge.

“The thought policeman,” Captain Sloane raised knit-browed eyes from her datapad, “did _what_?”

“His job, ma’am,” the ensign muttered.

“ _Ensign_.”

The junior officer’s jaw locked, her shoulders already stiff from the attention pose stiffened even more.

Sloane rose from her seat and picked up her gloves and cap as she strode around the desk. “Where are they?”

“Main detention block, cell 17.” The ensign trotted in Sloane’s wake out of the office.

Sloane waved a gloved hand at her. “You may go.” _And keep your sass as far away as possible from the thought policeman._

“Yes ma’am.”

By the relief in the ensign’s voice, Sloane knew she had picked up the unspoken part of the order. Thank the stars.

In the anteroom of the office, Sloane told her assistant and the officer of the day to take care of matters for a short time, ignored their questioning looks, and made her brisk way to the _Ultimatum_ ’s brig. It was a good time to strategise beforehand, but to her surprise she found her mind was too full of cold, all-encompassing rage to make plans. _We don’t know what went on_ , the ensign had said. No idea what had prompted the _Ultimatum_ ’s ISB hitchhiker to stand up from his mess hall seat and say, loud enough for the whole hall to hear, “Commander, would you please comm the brig and inform them I need a cell for an interrogation?” That was how the ensign had overheard the cell number. Then the thought policeman had led Chamas away. Chamas, wisely, had thought better than to protest aloud, although in the ensign’s words he looked around the mess hall for help nobody would be so careless as to give.

The ensign had not described the scene in details but Sloane could picture the uncannily quiet mess hall, the downcast eyes stealing glances at the intruder strutting like he owned the place, and at his prey.

“Troopers, if you don’t mind,” Sloane called to two stormtroopers, a corporal and a private, standing in front of a turbolift. They moved away and stood at attention; when the lift arrived they didn’t follow her into it. For an instant Sloane considered bringing them along, just for the sake of an extra display of muscle in front of the thought policeman. Which, she mercilessly considered, was a veiled admission of fear, of a need for protection. The ISB man would sniff that out like an anooba sniffs fresh blood. And he would have no trouble attributing to the stormtroopers’ presence all manners of defiance, insubordination, hindrance of ISB work, and so on; the kind of things that cost young captains their newly acquired Star Destroyer command.

Sloane punched in the code for the brig deck; the doors slid closed and the turbolift started its descent. If this turned sour, she could always pull strings with Baron Danthe. But that would take time and, even worse, bind her even tighter to a conniving Corulag magnate who already thought Sloane owed to him the _Ultimatum_ ’s captaincy. And he wasn’t too wrong, after all.

Sloane allowed herself a sigh. This would be steam to blow off at her boxing session. _Just hold on until then, it’s only a few standard hours. Now keep moving. Destroy barriers. See everything_. Count Vidian’s mantra was somewhat calming, as outrageous as that would have sounded to Vidian himself.

As the turbolift quickly progressed to its destination, Sloane smoothed non-existent wrinkles from her tunic and felt her head around the cap for any stray hair. The lift stopped and the doors opened; Sloane schooled her features into a command bridge frown, bland yet serious, unreadable. _Almost_ unreadable. The man was a thought policeman, and people like him were taught to read people like Captain Sloane. Small wonder—Sloane gritted her teeth—a chatterbox like Chamas had landed himself in trouble.

A fleeting, treasonous thought of leaving the commander in the lurch of his own doing crossed her mind. Then it was gone, like a chunk of starship detritus burning as a meteoroid in the Ganthel sky.

She could spot cell 17 by the two stormtroopers mounting guard at the door. The ISB man must have commandeered them on his way. Sloane’s boots thumped heavily in the empty corridor, and the stormtroopers turned in her direction. Sloane registered the tiniest flinch in their posture. Poor bastards, caught between an asteroid and a hard place.

“Ma’am,” one said as Sloane approached, the subdued quietness in her voice seeping through the vocoder, “there is an interrogation going on in this cell. Agent Kallus has forbidden entrance to anyone.”

Sloane stared into the stormtrooper’s helmet lenses. Within a few seconds, the trooper backed half a step away from the door, and so did her companion. They stood so stiff they resembled the life-sized holos of bucketheads that recruiting sergeants sometimes brought to youth employment fairs.

The door was locked and Sloane had to insert her code cylinder in the lock to enter the cell. Of course it was just a little act of basic precaution on the ISB man’s part; but to Captain Sloane, it felt like yet another snub at her authority.

She stepped down the steps and into the dimly lit cell; for a moment she heard Chamas’ voice, talking fast and quiet, then silence. The ISB man was standing with his arms behind his back, the right hand balled up into a fist, just under the electrostaff-like weapon slung over the rear of his cuirass. Chamas sat rigidly on the bunk; no sign of physical harm. He had the dignity not to smile or snivel as soon as he recognised Sloane.

“Captain,” said Agent Kallus, almost affable. Then his tone cooled. “Your presence is disrupting an ISB interrogation. I kindly ask you to wait outside this cell.”

The thought of telling the thought policeman to kriff off and leave her crew alone tempted Sloane. What Navy officer wouldn’t have such a gut reaction at a time like this? “An interrogation that is not part of your mission, Agent.” Matter-of-factly, cool, calm, collected. “As captain of this ship, I have the duty and the right to be informed of any ISB-led override of my command, as per articles 635 paragraph Aurek and Besh and 656 paragraph Aurek of the Imperial Armed Forces Penal Code.”

Kallus turned to fully face her. His expression was hard, with a dash of either contempt or surprise brought in by a quirked eyebrow. “You reread all the code articles limiting the ISB’s power against that of the Navy,” his right arm moved and Sloane followed its movement in the corner of her eye, “when you found out I was to hitch a ride on your ship, didn’t you?” All his arm did was lie down along his flank. The fist was still clenched.

“What did Commander Chamas do, then?” Sloane asked. She didn’t even glance at Chamas, but she did hear the rustle of his uniform as he shifted on his seat.

“He made an inappropriate remark on the Lasan campaign.”

Sloane blinked back the urge to glare daggers in Chamas’ direction. Half the ship had made inappropriate remarks on the Lasan campaign, as soon as the knowledge this thought policeman was fresh from there had hit the rumour mill. That was why Sloane had issued orders to the officers and NCOs to watch over their subordinates’ mouths, _in the spirit of respect and collaboration with the Imperial Security Bureau_. Damn pity Chamas had not gotten the unspoken order to watch over his own mouth as well.

“Specifically,” Kallus’s small mouth between the blond mutton chops sure had a way of twitching so as to express maximum disgust, “he implied the use of T-7 ion disruptors was due to—I quote—the military-industrial complex needing to offload a few stock items.” His eyes flicked to the side. “Is that what you said, Commander?”

“It’s not what I meant! For the last time, I... Captain, please tell him I would never mean—”

“We still need to work on that, I see,” said Kallus. Chamas’ mouth clamped shut. Sloane had never seen him afraid, genuinely afraid like this; it wasn't a pretty sight. Not a pleasant feeling to have those wide-open trembling eyes fixed on her, and know this was one of her crew. He had failed her by getting himself in trouble with the ISB, and she was failing him by letting the ISB man have his way around her crew and her ship.

“If you don’t mind leaving us, Captain...” Kallus insisted.

“A word, Agent. If you don’t mind.”

Kallus’ right fist twitched. Sloane found herself bending her knees the slightest bit, readying her body to jump to the side, dodging, and sprint to strike back.

Kallus turned to Chamas and smirked. “I won’t be long.”

Chamas bit his lip and looked at Sloane again, but she averted her gaze and preceded Kallus out of the cell. Sloane heard Kallus’ footsteps just behind her, and took as long a stride as dignity allowed to stay ahead of him. Once they were a few metres away from the stormtroopers, Sloane wheeled to face him. He immediately halted, hands behind his back, face stern and expressionless. _Good reflexes_.

“I can override your command a lot more than this, Captain,” he said, but didn’t sound like he would enjoy it. “You are pushing for that, you know.”

“Chamas is probably right about Lasan and the disruptors, though.”

Kallus’ lips twitched. He narrowed his eyes.

“I personally know Baron Danthe. This is why I would not put such a course of action past him.”

Kallus’ face lost its unreadable quality. There was an inner glow to it, a burning anger backlighting the frown.

Sloane pressed on, “If you wish, we could make an inquiry through the holocomm in my office. I have clearance to reach him at his personal contact account. I’m certain if I ask him on your behalf, Baron Danthe will be glad to offer explanations.”

Kallus exhaled sharply through his nostrils.

“Shall we go, then?”

Kallus’ right arm shook. Sloane barely repressed a flinch of her own. If he attacked her—insane, of course, but after what had happened on Gorse she was prepared for any important passenger on the _Ultimatum_ to pull off insane stunts—if the ISB goon attacked her, who would the two stormtrooper guards rush to help?

“I _was_ on Lasan, Captain.” Kallus’ voice had dropped to the hiss of a leaking reactor. “On the battlefield every day and night. I trust you are bright enough to realise why I do not appreciate the implication that the campaign was resolved because some magnate needed to sell weapons to the Empire.”

An idealist, thought Sloane with a hint of pity. Those types were always the most suited to serve in the ISB. And the trickiest to reason with. You couldn’t flat-out tell this bloke there were people making a lot of credits off the military supplies, including weapons, and that was the entire extent of their loyalty to the Empire; no, you had to spin it in the way the idealist wanted to hear it. Cater to their fanaticism, though it is most impolite to call fanaticism by its name when the fanatic is on the same side as you. “Surely it has meant the campaign was resolved in an _efficient_ fashion.” She imagined Count Vidian leading that operation; the disruptors would have been put to use against any and all sentients since day one.

Kallus watched her through his narrowed eyes, weighing her words, scanning them for hidden meaning. “So efficient, the disruptors are now banned.” A simple statement, neither damning nor approving; a test for her reaction.

The pity returned, tinged with spite. _Butcher of Lasan, do you fancy yourself a tough boy? Vidian would have crushed you under his thumb_.

“Yes, I saw the circular memo to fleet commanders about that. To my knowledge, most of the disruptors were already in Imperial hands. Our officers are working hard to track down the few samples that made their way into the black market.”

“You are agreeing with Commander Chamas’ assessment, then?”

“As distasteful as I personally find it from a career soldier’s standpoint—there is no reason not to, Agent.”

Kallus’ mouth showed a tiny bit of gritted teeth.

“I would not be surprised if Baron Danthe had an inkling the Senate intended to ban those rifles,” Sloane went on like she hadn’t noticed him losing his temper. “Organa, Mothma and their lobbies had been pressing their anti-WMD bill for a while; logically, nobody ought to be more aware of that than the rising star of the military-industrial complex. It would be a massive hindrance to the business.”

“Are you suggesting the disruptors were a... _clearance sale_?”

“Suggesting will get us nowhere, Agent. Shall we head to my office and make that call to Baron Danthe?”

Kallus opened his mouth, shut it, glanced at the stormtroopers and the cell door then back at Sloane, flung his right arm to his chest and pressed the fist there. The arm was shaking, but not the rest of Kallus’ body. Sloane pondered the opportunity to ask him if he was feeling well, immediately decided against it, and kept her eyes steady while meeting Kallus’ hard gaze.

The frown on his face deepened, and he turned to the stormtroopers. “Troopers, guard that cell for another standard hour. Then Commander Chamas will be free to go.”

As soon as Sloane spotted the helmeted heads tilt to look at her, she gave a nod.

“Yes, sir,” the troopers answered in unison.

Sloane silenced a sigh of relief: for Chamas, for the chain of command, for herself. Danthe was a big, rich boy who could deal with the ISB on his own.

“I hope you have no objection,” Kallus’ frown morphed into a sneer, “if Chamas is taught a little lesson in discretion?”

“None at all, Agent.” This would not look good on Chamas’ service record. Along with many other small quirks and flaws that did not look good on his service record.

“May I escort you back to your office, ma’am?” In ISB-ese, this must’ve meant apologies and a desire to make up for the wrongdoing. It wouldn’t be wise to rebuff the sudden kindness.

“As you wish.” Sloane led the way to the turbolift. This time it was Kallus who had to walk along at her pace, slower, shorter-legged than his.

He still made it first to the turbolift and stretched out his right arm to press the button. His hand accelerated and mashed its palm against the button. The device didn’t break, they’d built them stronger since accidents with Wookiee prisoners attempting to flee had happened; but it creaked in protest.

Sloane raised an eyebrow. Kallus blinked and, for a few moments, seemed taken aback. Upset, even. “My apologies, Captain. Fine movements are a bit difficult to get used to.”

“Pardon me?”

Silent inhalation, puffing up his cuirassed chest. Silent exhalation. “On Lasan, I was injured. My right arm had to be replaced with a mechno-arm.” He retreated it behind his back along with the flesh-and-bone one. “It works very well, but it has taken a bit to fully adjust. You understand, I’m sure.”

Had that wound happened before or after the ISB had approved the use of ion disruptors against the Lasats? “Yes, Agent.” And he was back on the field with a prosthesis he still had adjustment issues with; depending on the injury, the body part and the individual patient, the process could take weeks and plenty of therapy. Had it been the ISB’s order to return this man to active duty—his destination was a war zone—or Agent Kallus’ idea? “Of course I do.”

He bowed slightly to the now open lift. “After you.” As soon as the lift began its ascent, he said, “I must confess I feel more eager for a good fight than I have ever been. I’m sure my new arm will get better in no time.”

_And if it doesn’t?_

“My superiors suggested me to apply for a clerical role at the ISB central office on Coruscant. But you understand, Captain—I’m not cut for a desk job.”

“We all serve the Empire in whichever capacity we can, but indeed, there are more exalted ways to do so than by serving bureaucracy.”

Kallus laughed louder than the joke warranted. He reminded Sloane of certain cadets, half-forgotten names and faces from the early academy days, who tried to laugh off the tension before a difficult exercise. One jumped to her mind, Sloane couldn’t remember the name and the face was a blur; that cadet had laughed because she was about to burst into tears, her adolescent voice shrill with strain. Sloane couldn’t remember her well because she hadn’t wanted to look at her for too long. An instinctive fear of contagion. The cadet failed the test, left the Navy and disappeared.

“I am ready,” Kallus went on, “to submit to my superiors’ best judgment and retire from active service should I... encounter difficulties during this mission. It is only fair, isn’t it? It is the strong who survive and thrive, and the weak who perish.”

There was much to object to the equation of _weak_ to _wounded in action_. But Sloane kept that to herself. “You should have met Count Vidian, Agent. You would have found him inspirational.”

“I read your reports from Gorse.” He spoke like a thought policeman again, but intrigued rather than suspicious. “You were about to arrest him. What makes you think _I_ would have appreciated his acquaintance? Should we have exchanged tips on how to maintain fully operational prosthetic limbs?” He flexed his right arm. Not ostentatiously, like some young Human at the gym showing off their biceps; he stretched the forearm palm-up, bending the wrist with his left hand. It had never occurred to Sloane that a mechno-arm could feel carpal tunnel syndrome. A pathology for desk jockeys.

The lift stopped and the door slid open. Sloane stepped out first and walked down the corridor with Kallus at her side. “Vidian might have been a felon, but his philosophy is not responsible for that. _Forget the old way_ —it’s what stands at the Empire’s core, isn’t it? Paving the way for a new order for the galaxy. Better, safer, efficient.”

“Yes, I remember that management treatise. It is a suggested read in the ISB library.”

“Do you agree with the tenet? It doesn’t necessarily imply agreeing with the life choices of the man who wrote it.” Many people in the Empire, apex predators like Baron Danthe and tiny cogs in the machine like Chamas, would have laughed aloud at the word choice of _man_ to define Vidian.

Kallus snorted, glaring to his front. “I know the old way quite well. The Coruscant lower levels, and worlds like Onderon or Lasan. Good riddance to it.”

“Indeed.” Sloane stepped at her office door. “Glad we cleared this little mess up, Agent.” The stars willing, this would serve as a lesson for the _Ultimatum_ ’s crew: no more loose lips sinking starships as long as the thought policeman was on board.

Kallus bowed his head. “It serves me right for underestimating your quick thinking and your strength of character, Captain.” He didn’t sound half as flattering as the words suggested. Rather more interested, in a detached, professional manner. “You didn’t measure up to Vidian for nothing.”

And to Commander Baylo, who almost murdered the Emperor and Lord Vader over Christophsis. And, in a sense, to Grand Moff Tarkin, as she had been under his direct command on the _Executrix_. “It was one test of strength among many others. And to think there used to be a time when the biggest such test I could envision was the Prefsbelt NCB final match.” She made to press the button and open the door.

“You boxed at that level?”

They stared at each other, eyes wide in genuine surprise.

“Yes,” said Sloane. “I still do in my spare time.”

“And—wouldn’t you happen to have any experience with quarterstaff combat?”

Sloane opened her mouth to say something that expressed polite puzzlement. Then her eyes darted to the melee weapon strapped to the back of Kallus’ cuirass, the point sticking up over his shoulder.

“Exactly what you’re thinking, Captain,” Kallus said. “It isn’t standard ISB ordnance, but a Lasat bo-rifle. The melee weapon of their royal guardsmen.”

Pried from the cold, dead paws of a Lasat guardsman, in all likelihood. “Interesting. Did you keep it out of revenge?”

“No!” The abruptness of his answer surprised her, and so did the pensive rest of the sentence, “Out of honour.” Whatever in the galaxy that meant. Sloane didn’t dig any deeper.

“I tinkered with it before leaving Coruscant,” Kallus went on, more conversational, “but never had the chance to do a proper preliminary test. It wouldn’t be good if it broke in my hands while fighting off enemies.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

Kallus let the question hang between them.

Sloane pondered. On one hand, this pretty much substantiated every whispered Navy jokes about terrible ISB dating ideas. On the other, a golden opportunity to punch a thought policeman and get away with it.

“You are welcome to drop by the gym tonight at 18:00,” Sloane said. “Troops Deck, corridor M-3. If you are lost, ask a stormtrooper.”

Kallus laughed softly. “I will try not to scare them.”

 _Smug bastard. They were here when Vidian was around_. Sloane clicked her heels in salutation, and opened the office door.

 

###

 

At that early hour of night cycle, Sloane arrived at the _Ultimatum_ ’s gym a dozen standard minutes before she was due. She warned the corporal of the day that Agent Kallus would join her shortly, and ordered her to direct him to the changing room and then to the captain’s sparring room.

Sloane had just finished her first series of warm-up exercises when he walked in. “Good evening, Agent.”

“Captain.”

The training room door slid closed behind him. Kallus had doffed his uniform and cuirass in favour of padded training garb that left his arms partly bare; Sloane tried not to stare at the synthskin-less arm, light grey polished metal winding in the shapes of Human muscular fascia.

“I know the sight’s a bit unsettling.” He opened and closed his right fist and threw a few punches into the air. “My medical insurance covered the prosthetics but not the synthskin, and I don’t think the latter is all that necessary anyway.”

“Not unsettling at all. It looks like top-notch technology, in fact.”

“XS4-series, the latest model. The market price is about five standard months’ worth of my salary. Did you know the ISB has a contract with the same cybernetic reconstruction hospital that treated Vidian?”

“Then they know what they’re doing. How about that Lasat rifle, instead?”

Kallus was holding it in the crook of his flesh-and-blood arm. He flipped it to his hand; the extremities of the staff extended into electrified spearheads. He spun it and passed it still spinning to his right hand. “I realise it looks somewhat clunky, but it’s quite well-balanced—” Kallus groaned as his arm shook. His hand stubbornly held onto the weapon.

Sloane frowned, but refrained from asking him if he was alright and generally offering pity. She just stood and waited for him to stop gasping and steady himself again.

“Captain.”

“Yes, Agent?”

“While we spar, I beg you not to hold back.”

“As you wish.” Sloane walked up to the training weapons rack, took hold of an electrostaff and activated it. “Does your weapon have a minimum power setting?”

“No. You may set yours at maximum, so we are even.”

“Very well.”

Sloane stood at the centre of the room, body arched in a basic battle stance. The electrostaff in her hands sizzled into action and a spark of that energy ran down her spine as well. To the nine hells with winning a tournament, bragging around the mess hall wearing the champion’s belt; fighting was its own reward. Its own _fun_.

The half-smile on Kallus’ face mirrored that on her own. Sloane lunged first, electric tendrils flashing at the edge of her vision. Kallus parried—strong and steady, just as she expected—and swept one foot towards her forward knee while he spun the bo-rifle out of the deadlock.

Sloane dodged and ducked, one step forward to the left side just out of the bo-rifle’s measure. The crackle of the electrified spearhead filled her ears. She swung her electrostaff and aimed for the elbow although she knew he’d move away, and when he would—

The electrostaff point hit the elbow-pad on Kallus’ mechno-arm. A gasp, then a thud as the bo-rifle dropped to the floor.

Golden chance.

Sloane swung her electrostaff downwards, point-first.

Kallus squatted and leapt away, kicking the bo-rifle along. Sloane marked him closely, but when she slashed at him he was ready to meet her, parry and hit back in a crackling whirlwind, until they were standing on guard out of each other’s measure again.

Sloane felt slick with sweat under her training gear; Kallus’ face was wet and its paleness had turned a bright red. He was holding the bo-rifle with his left hand only. The right arm hung at his side and his fist opened and closed.

“Agent, I’m not asking out of pity; I simply don’t want to answer to the ISB if you are injured before you even reach the battlefield. Is your arm fine?”

“Getting better.”

“Wouldn’t you rather use a lighter weapon, like mine?”

“Either this one or I crawl back to Coruscant and let myself be chained to a desk.”

A vision of herself disembarking the _Ultimatum_ , lieutenant’s badge back on her tunic and Captain Karlsen preening on the command bridge, crossed Sloane’s mind. Her fists clenched the electrostaff tighter. “So,” she said, eyes focused to keep track of every motion attempt in her opponent, “shall we keep moving and destroy barriers?”

“That’s the way, Captain. I really owe you apologies, don’t I?”

Before Sloane could ask him for what, he lurched to attack.

 

###

 

When Sloane walked into the officers’ mess hall, Chamas spotted her, rose from his seat, and rushed to stand beside the captain’s chair. “Permission to pull the chair out for you, ma’am?”

“Go back to your chow and don’t get in trouble again, Commander.” Sloane patted him on the shoulder and gently pushed him out of the way.

“Yes, ma’am.” He had always been the oldest one in the command bridge crew pits, but tonight he looked sagging-faced, slouch-shouldered and bleary-eyed like the weight of his years had hit him in one punch; even his moustache seemed to have gotten greyer in a matter of hours, Sloane thought with a certain amusement.

“Good evening, gentlebeings,” she greeted the rest of the table as she sat down and put the bowl of soup in front of her. Lieutenant Deltic, who sat next to her, poured her a glass of water. Sloane knew she would cast sideway glances at the red blemish on her chin, just as everyone who’d seen her exit the training room had done. When Sloane looked Deltic back in the eye, the lieutenant blinked and pretended her soup contained something worth spoon-digging at.

“In case any of you had placed bets,” Sloane said without looking up from the chow, “my sparring session with Agent Kallus ended in a tie.”

“Well, now I owe Ensign Cauley a beer,” Deltic mumbled.

That aside, everyone kept to themselves remarks about how that was unfair and the captain deserved to grind the thought policeman’s freckly arse into a bantha patty. Sloane smiled at the spoonful of soup she was blowing on. To herself, she had more than once affectionately referred to the _Ultimatum_ crew as ‘her embarrassments’; It was touching to see they were shaping up, one narrowly avoided disaster at a time. Better this than being chained to a desk, maybe back home on Ganthel. A million times better.

“It’s almost a shame we are reaching our destination in a few standard hours,” Sloane mused aloud. “It’s been a while since I had such a satisfying fight.”

She heard Chamas’ slightly strained laughter.

Someone else asked, “Whose unit is he going to liaise with?”

“Dirt-pounders. Someone in General Ordo’s division—one Captain Veers, I think.”

Chamas made an attempt at non-risky conversation, “Ordo... Isn’t that one of those Mando iron ladies?”

Someone else again, “Oh yes, indeed. Not Eve Ordo, though—she stepped on a landmine on Rattatak. This one is General Karil Ordo. Same clan but quite distant relatives.”

“Rings a bell... Was she at the siege of Mandalore?”

“On our side, thankfully.”

Laughter, not strained anymore.

Sloane looked up. Deltic was still glancing at the bruise, an eyebrow cocked. Knowing Deltic, it was more likely she was wondering what kind of blunt impact had produced it than expressing concern for Sloane’s health. “A thing that might be of interest to you, Lieutenant: Agent Kallus has a XS4-series mechno-arm.”

Deltic coughed out a few drops of soup. “Seriously?”

“It is as sturdy as the medical insurance ads claim. I hit him there very hard towards the end of our match; a flesh-and-bone arm would have broken. Instead, the electrostaff broke upon impact.”

“Ohh! Yes, it’s a shame he’s on the hyperlane out. And it’s a double shame you didn’t knock him out cold.” Deltic pouted. “I could have snuck into the medbay—the chief medical officer would’ve let me in, we science officers are all good chums anyway—I mean, snuck in there while he was unconscious and cut that beauty open—”

“Lieutenant, do not finish that sentence until he’s off this ship.”

“...Yes, ma’am.”


End file.
